


Through The Looking Glass

by Toshi_Nama



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Challenges, Gen, POV Multiple, Random & Short, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toshi_Nama/pseuds/Toshi_Nama
Summary: Why do the people we encounter in Thedas do what they do? No, not our own beloved OCs, but the nobles, the villains, the ordinary people?This work is a collection of various points of view and perspectives, frequently from 'I wonder what...' conversations I've had with other fans over time. Chapter 1 is the 'real' table of contents (with each POV labeled) - each other chapter is a title to short. Each chapter is a different POV, and they're in no particular order - or even worldstate. Some involve mention of OCs. Others don't.**Disclaimer** use of the POV and writing from that perspective is *not* an endorsement of it - it's a look into what *might be.*I've had a blast with these, and am always looking for new and unique challenges! If you have any, please feel free to comment on Ch 1!
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Table of Perspectives

Whose eyes do you want to look through?

Ch 2: By the Ancestors (Branka)

Ch 3: A Hunter No Longer (Danyla)

Ch 4: The Good of Ferelden (Eamon)

Ch 5: A Living God (Erimond)

Ch 6: Inquisition's Unlikeliest Member (Tamar)

Ch 7: Beauty Corrupted (Urthemiel)

Ch 8: The Templar and His Dark-Haired Mage (Morrigan)

Ch 9: Behind the Wall (Blackwall)

Ch 10: Oh, Jim (Jim)


	2. By the Ancestors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would you do to save your people - your race?

9:20 Dragon

Ten years ago, it seemed an honor. Interesting, even. Now?

My husband is a drunk who takes out his anger at the Provings. His House, now  _ my  _ House, hates him. I didn’t want that to happen. It’s my fault - I had other things to worry about, and he didn’t understand. Why blame the one who was abandoned? It’s that or blame their Paragon.

_ Paragon. _

It’s been three weeks since I’ve lit up my forge. Instead, I have to watch the Deshyrs dig themselves a deeper shaft. Nothing they do matters.  _ Nothing.  _ Hespith says that’s what new Paragons are for: to crack open a new vein, force new ideas into the alloy.

I’ve tried. For a decade I’ve tried.

I’ve failed.

**

9:21 Dragon

We’re dying.

The numbers don’t lie and a smith has to work with the ore that’s there, not what she wishes she’d bought. Especially with House Kondrat no longer part of the Warrior Caste, there simply aren’t enough. The Darkspawn come closer each year. More Warriors fall than the Caste can birth.

More Deshyrs die than the Noble Caste can birth, too, but that’s a good thing. Endrin’s the only one who managed to produce three children out of the fifty-eight members of the Assembly. The fifty-eight  _ other  _ members, but I won’t have a child with Hespith, Oghren doesn’t come home any longer, and none of the other men appeal.

It’s not enough to tinker around the edges. We need something big. Some change that completely upends the balance.

Hespith – I could hate you for what you said. ‘That’s what a Paragon is for.’

I’m a smith, not an Aeducan, not a Dace, not an Ortan. I can’t forge the Darkspawn out of existence. I can’t forge an army.

**

9:21 Dragon

‘I can’t forge an army.’ Those words haunted me. Then I remembered.

One smith  _ did. _

Caridin.

Golems.

The Anvil – his Paragonhood. A smith did forge an army, one that protected Orzammar for centuries…but Caridin didn’t live long enough to pass on his secrets and his Anvil died with him.

Didn’t it?

**

9:21 Dragon

The Memories are  _ missing.  _ The Shapers refuse to believe it, but Hespith and I can see the shadows of what has been carved out. There was a reason Caridin’s death was recorded so abruptly and it wasn’t illness, Darkspawn, or common assassination.

I have forged a golem, but it’s as lifeless as anything else I make.  _ What is missing?!  _ There is no smith living that can help me find it. Caridin – if I can find  _ your  _ notes, I can recreate your work. The Anvil. Orzammar needs a Paragon, like it or not, and that means I must  _ be  _ the Paragon that can save Orzammar from itself.

Stone, thank you for those who were once Kondrat. If we must venture into the Deep Roads, my House is full of the Warriors I am not. They can get me to Cairdin’s notes, to his workshop even, if I can find it.

I’m the only Paragon smith. If anyone can piece Caridin’s puzzle together, it’s me.

**

9:23 Dragon

He wasn’t in Kal Hirol.

He wasn’t in Ortan Thaig.

He wasn’t in Aeducan Thaig.

Ancestors! I need to find the Anvil, I need to find whatever Caridin left! That must be why I joined you as Paragon. The dwarves have failed, and you need a new Warrior Caste. A  _ golem  _ Caste.

My heresy terrifies me, but Hespith is right. My instincts are right. We  _ need the people.  _ If we cannot get the  _ people,  _ I  _ must  _ forge them. Three years, and I have failed. I research with Hespith and one or two others. Every song, every scrap of Memory about the golems, the last of which was lost to the Darkspawn two centuries ago,  _ none  _ of it gives me what I need to forge them anew.

Caridin was a master smith. None but another master smith could put together his work.

I  _ am  _ a master smith. The first Smith Caste Paragon since Caridin. If I can’t, no one will and Orzammar will die.

**

_ More fragments, diagrams, notes of failures. _

**

9:25 Dragon

Endrin thinks I’m sunfried, but has opened up his own House’s records to Hespith and I. He says to trust in the Ancestors.

I  _ am  _ an Ancestor, named one fifteen years ago.

All I wanted to do was continue forging, continue crafting. The Assembly took that from me when they took my Caste and made me a Paragon.

Hespith believes in me. My House believes in me.

My husband is drunk eight days out of seven and sleeps in the tavern or Proving Grounds.

He used to believe.

**

9:26 Dragon

_ House Aeducan’s records are different from the Memories.  _

I can’t tell anyone.

The Shaperate, Endrin, even the royal gasbag’s children give me  _ looks  _ when they think I will not notice.

For the first time in five years, I have hope. If the records are different, then maybe Hespith and I can piece together what the Memories avoided.

**

9:27 Dragon

We have found…something. An argument, frothing madness from King Valtor, and then silence. Something happened in the Deep Roads, far from Orzammar. Past Bownammar.

That’s past the Legion’s fortress, as far as Hespith says the Legion can push.

King Valtor was assassinated and generations later Queen Getha used every bit of the Legion of Steel to try find what he had done.

_ What had he done?!  _ Damn you both to the Void, I  _ need to know!  _ In your pride, have you damned your last descendants as well, just to hide the truth?

**

9:28 Dragon

I have no choice. I cannot recreate the Anvil of the Void alone: I have failed. Orzammar needs its Paragon Smith to forge an army, to buy us space to breed again, to reclaim our empire before we fall to the Darkspawn.

House Branka has sworn itself to follow me, sworn itself to find Caridin’s work, no matter the cost.

All except Oghren.

He hasn’t come home for six months, not even to cadge money or eat.

In memory of the girl he’d married, in memory of the man I had loved, I won’t tell him until it’s too late.

For Orzammar’s sake, I swear on my House: my journals will not lie. I will write  _ everything,  _ no matter what it is. If I fail, someone  _ must  _ succeed or Orzammar will go the way of Kal Hirol, Bownammar, Cal’halash, Gundaar, Hormak, and the rest.

Ancestors, for the sake of all that’s left, help me succeed.


	3. A Hunter No Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A curse can end with happiness - or with peace.

She panted, the warm scents of earth and grass filling her nose. Inches in front of her eyes, a bee landed on the clover. The rage…the  _ hunger… _ was gone. It…it had been real, hadn’t it? The blood, the pain. She’d gone for deer, and found one of  _ them.  _

Blood and teeth. Fear and fury. It had been all she could do to run away rather than toward the Clan. If she couldn’t stop the curse, she would still do what she could. She was a hunter. Protector. But now, it was  _ gone.  _

Her clothes had also vanished, but what did that matter to one of the People? She wrapped her scarf around her, arms trembling at their sudden weakness. Now she remembered tearing at herleathers when they grew confining to the monster she had become. No. She had been cursed, but had refused to become a monster like  _ them.  _ She’d held strong. There was no blood when she wiped her mouth.

On her knees, she looked around. The clearing she’d stumbled into was surprisingly peaceful; all that moved were the bees and above her, a few woodlarks, and her own harsh breathing. Her heart stilled; her trembling slowly faded to stillness. She was of the People; she knew this forest, these trees. The camp wasn’t more than three hours away at a lope; five in her current state. Then she would be home.

New visitors drew her startled attention. Her heart raced a moment, then calmed; it was nothing but what should be. The wolves had come back, now that the twisted curse and the enraged violence that haunted their territory had passed. Three – four – seven. They weren’t watching the birds or the clover, though; that was when she looked past her joy at the forest finding its balance again. They were watching her. She studied them back and felt unbalanced by the wrongness. Their ribs pressed unnaturally against their fur for early summer. Now, they should be full and sleek given the abundance of easy prey for her wild counterparts. They should be playing, not slinking...then the first called.

Her eyes closed. Of course. The curse and its violence had driven off or destroyed their prey. She reached for her bow; gone. Her dagger; gone as well. They must have been discarded with her leathers as she fought herself to keep herself. That meant here and now, they did not see a fellow hunter.

She could fight, but there was no rage left in her. Instead, she closed her eyes, breathing in the heavy sweetness and warmth pressing against her vallaslin. Andruil would not hear her now. 

_ Falon’din, I am ready.  _ Instead of crouching in challenge, she knelt with her hands open on her thighs.  _ Athras, our sweet Naela – I’m sorry. I love you. _


	4. The Good of Ferelden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A name can be a cause worth fighting for.

The Warden just looked at him. She was so small… “But he doesn’t want to?”

“I know he doesn’t!” Eamon bit his tongue. He’d worked with the Bannorn so long...he had to remember this woman was a  _ mage.  _ Not that magic was bad, but she had no real understanding of Ferelden; it’s history, its soul. Circles were their own societies.

She was waiting.

He took a breath. “It would be easier if Alistair wanted the throne, but what matters isn’t the desires of one man, but the good of Ferelden.”

“He doesn’t know how to rule, he’s said it himself.”

“You’re being -” No, that wasn’t helpful. “He can learn. Alistair is not a stupid man, and he cares.”

“Talk to him, not me.”

He watched her walk out of the room and ran a hand through his hair. “Maferath and Hessarian,” he swore under his breath. 

She didn’t understand, but how could she? Eamon looked around his study, remembering that day two decades ago when it had been a different mage who’d caused an issue for Ferelden’s throne before walking out and leaving him to deal with it. He stared into the flames, and the finer furniture and more comfortable chairs vanished.

“Maric,” he murmured to his long-dead brother-in-law, “what now? She doesn’t understand what the Theirin name  _ means.  _ No Theirin can be ordinary. It doesn’t matter if they’re a good king, or a bad one.” There had been both, but it was the name, that one word, that had kept the rebellion alive. 

_Theirin_ had kept peasants silent even as Chevaliers killed their families and burned their homes; _Theirin_ had brought those nobles who had mouthed Orlesian and passed information, risking everything for that one thing. It wasn’t for Maric, good a man as his brother in law had been. It was for a _Theirin._ The civil war had been inevitable; for all Loghain’s heroism, who could unite Ferelden but that one word?

He’d tried. Maric wanted his younger son raised as a normal man in respect for the mage who’d abandoned him, but he was a Theirin. As Horse Master under Dennet, he would have known how to interact with nobility, would have been respected, had his opinions considered. No, that was too much when he couldn’t tell Isolde; his oath to Maric came before his to his wife. Why would he care so much about an infant brought out from Redcliffe Castle if it wasn’t his own? _Because it was his brother’s._ Rowan begged him, and he’d learned to love Maric as a brother in truth. They’d shed blood together, they’d laughed together…and now, he had turned away from the woman who could have been his niece in another life. Rowan knew what _Theirin_ meant, and learned to love the man who wore it for the good of Ferelden. Golden Anora was queen and she was in a way his niece, and none of that could matter.

No, none of it could.

What did one man, one woman, matter compared to the country itself? How many eyes had he closed during the war? How many pyres? How many had already given their lives rallying around Teagan against the man who wasn’t a Theirin, because a hero wasn’t enough?

No.

Anora was a strong and intelligent woman, but that wasn’t enough. She was respected, but not  _ loved.  _ They were only a generation from the Occupation and freedom! They couldn’t risk anything but unity, not now.

No.

Ferelden needed King Theirin. They needed something to believe in. They needed continuity, they needed more.

He considered Alistair, who had been able to slip away from every cage thus far. Eamon’s heart ached. He’d sent the boy to the Templars when Isolde made it clear he wouldn’t become Horse Master; the Order taught leadership and was welcome in villages and Palaces both. The Warden, Duncan, had taken the young man from the Order he’d fought against, but Wardens also worked with Kings and thieves…

Eamon could give the boy the freedom he wanted. Who else knew the truth? Loghain, almost certainly; Cailan knew, poor boy, so Anora was probably aware. Bryce had, but Rendon had killed off the Couslands - did  _ he  _ know?

The future spooled in front of his eyes; a kingdom disunited, a young man who just wanted to live a normal life - he could see blood pooling under a still body.

“No!”

The word startled him back from past and future to the present.

No.

He loved the boy, but he loved his country more. Maric had learned to find happiness even from within the cage of the palace. Cailan had found his own. Alistair must do the same. He couldn’t bear the thought of what would happen to his country, already on the brink of another war, otherwise. Ferelden needed him.


	5. A Living God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He believed. Belief is a force for many things.

“Argh!” The mug clattered against stone before dropping into the abyss beyond. “You don’t understand!”

The guard didn’t even bother to turn, and kept eating. “Oh, you again?”

_ “Yes,  _ me again! Let me free. Corypheus will understand. His plans...you don’t know what you disturb.”

The guard went back to eating.  _ And they call me arrogant. _

Oh, he was. How could he be otherwise? He was Magister Livius Erimond: clever enough,  _ faithful  _ enough, that Corypheus had reached out to him directly.  _ He  _ had devised the ritual, ready in case something went wrong with the Veil and Corypheus’ first attempt. Demons must be bound, or they would destroy the wheat and the chaff. The Wardens must be bound, or they would destroy what was left of the Old Gods who had made the Imperium.

Now? Now, he didn’t even have true darkness to sleep in, much less the silken sheets he deserved.  _ Corypheus,  _ he prayed,  _ hear your servant. I have not fallen. _

The darkness he’d lived with ate at him. The Imperium had fallen, destroyed when that bitch Andraste claimed to hear the long-forgotten Maker. The Old Gods were trapped in darkness - did the Wardens really think he wished to kill them? No. Corypheus had lost faith, but there was still hope.

The Blight was a tool, but a dangerous one. It kept him from reaching for the knowledge he needed, now that his first plan had failed thanks to the annoyance of the ‘Herald’ and ‘Inquisitor’ who rampaged through what she didn’t understand.

The Wardens wanted to destroy the Blight. Well, they were imperfect vessels, but they had saved enough, and more - had saved Corypheus, and thus became his. No one realized - the Blight was destroying everything, and the Maker who unleashed it as his final fart at the world he abandoned didn’t care.

Corypheus cared. He promised something the fools outside the Imperium had never known.

He promised a God that would listen.

He promised a God that would  _ answer. _

The darkness and rotted corpse of the Imperium needed both to reclaim itself and finally exterminate the Qunari. His family had remembered. Oh, it wasn’t  _ spoken,  _ but the small shrine to Dumat had seen use. His family had remembered the rituals, remembered the sacrifices.

If you wanted a God to answer, you needed to show it mattered.

He would sacrifice himself and everyone in this heap if that was what it took.

“You have no idea what bloodshed your false Herald will release. I serve an  _ actual _ god.”

The guard didn’t bother to answer.

_ Corypheus… _

He steeled himself. He had a god that would remember him so long as he was faithful. The Imperium needed it, and needed _him_ to lead it against what threatened it. Who better to revive the corpse of glory than one who had mastered the corruption the Maker shat at him?

_ Corypheus, I will not surrender. I believe. _


	6. Inquisition's Unlikeliest Member

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Temple was destroyed in fire and fury, a woman falling from the Fade...and a Disciple needed to believe.
> 
> This was a challenge from my dear friend Ash - to write Tamar and her joining the Inquisition. Thank you!

Tamar knew where they’d taken her, no matter her eyes were covered. Her feet had walked these paths for years, and there was no way to hide the scent of the Chantry, no matter the heretics had burned their own, foreign incense to cover the redolent remainder of the Sacraments. She’d suppressed the rage lifting scaled wings within her.  _ Years, _ she’d battled against the heretics, alone since Risen Andraste had buried the Ashes that trapped her and left the holy place.

She sat and watched as they dragged another woman in…was it…it looked like  _ her. _ The woman who’d come, pointed ears and snowy skin, hair like cream and ash-pale eyes.

She remembered Father Kolgrim’s voice, firm and commanding.  _ ‘You do not have the right to ask my name. You have defiled our temple. You have spilled the blood of the faithful, and slaughtered our young.’ _ He’d faced  _ her, _ and she’d felt a chill even through the strength that ran through her.

The woman’s voice had been thin, pale as she was.  _ ‘Why cooperate now?’ _ In the darkness of the Chantry basement, Tamar remembered. She couldn’t stop remembering, not when it was the last time she’d heard Father Kolgrim or Revered Father Elrick’s smooth reassurance, the last time she tasted the Sacraments and felt the strength and warmth of the other Disciples.

They were all dead now.

_ She _ had killed them all, then was declared Hero.  _ She  _ used Andraste’s ashes – the very ashes that prevented Her from rising to bring another back to life.  _ ‘We find outsiders…disruptive. They bring others, and before long, Haven is changed. We will go to any lengths to prevent that.’ _ The last words the Revered Father had said before  _ she’d _ slaughtered him in the nave that Tamar knew was now just above her head.

_ Disruptive. _

Did they want ‘disruptive?’ The false Chantry had gotten it. She’d felt what had come, felt it blaze through her as the world shook and dust poured into the weak soup they’d given her for dinner that night. 

Torches burned their way past the other cells as the ‘Chantry’ soldiers drug a whisper-pale elven woman through…then a blaze of green shocked her eyes, so used to darkness and red-gold torches.

“What happened? Who?”

The Commander, they called him. He was the man who’d watched with cold hazel eyes as they’d drug her in, before they’d put the cloth over her eyes to take her down here. As though a Disciple wouldn’t know the truth of her Chantry. But this Commander wore a scarlet cloak now. He’d become important, since then, or moreso. “You…they brought you in a week ago, did they not?” His eyes blurred a moment, then focused again. “Who are you?”

“Tamar.  _ Disciple _ Tamar.” Her voice was harsh, after so long in silence.

Those eyes went cold for another moment before pulling away toward where they’d dragged the other woman. “I see.” His voice was quiet as she heard shouting. Two women? A ripple of silence followed.

“Is she your vaunted ‘Hero?’”

“No.” His voice was quiet against her bitter spite. Was that weakness she heard? Pain pulsed against the rage in her blood, strong enough for Tamar to taste. “Virya Surana was not found. This woman is Dalish.”

Dalish? She didn’t recognize the word, but also didn’t care. Why would a Disciple care? “Where did she come from?”

She watched the man’s jaw stiffen under his light hair. She’d heard the others. They were possibly right - he could be considered handsome, in a broken sort of way. Beauty didn’t matter. They had driven out Andraste. All that mattered was strength. 

“She fell out of the tear in the sky that destroyed everything. That’s all we know.” For now, perhaps, but the tone under the heavy words called out to something in her she didn’t want to face.

It came anyway, spurred not just by longing but this Commander’s words. Kolgrim’s voice swam in memory.  _ ‘None but the Disciples may approach Andraste. She is not ready yet, but when the time is right she will descend upon the nations in fiery splendor, and all will know Her.’ _ Could this..

Could this be how She found to return? In the form of the woman who’d betrayed all their hopes, their sacred duty?

“The Temple?”

“Destroyed utterly.”

Nothing survived but her. The mysterious woman, a mirror of the damned Hero with porcelain hands to hide the blood she’d shed, was all that was left. The Ashes were no longer just buried, but destroyed. Lost utterly in magical fire…and the woman carried that divine fire within her.  _ That  _ was the blaze of green she’d seen.

The Commander watched her.

Finally, Tamar looked at him. “I wish to serve Her.”

“What?” He blinked at that. “You killed four of the Divine’s men when they found you, on top of however many you’d hunted over the years. Why in Andraste’s name should I trust you?”

_ ‘should I trust you.’ _

That meant he was the only one Tamar needed to convince, as she threw dirty, lank auburn hair out of her face. She could hear the words again. Father Kolgrim – his words, the horrible day – burned into her memory and blood as deeply as Risen Andraste’s presence. 

“It may be because I believe in second chances. All of us stumble through the darkness before being found and shown the light. Perhaps through Andraste’s mercy, her greatest enemy will become her greatest champion.” They didn’t come out defiantly, but…almost hopeful. 

Father Kolgrim’s words struck deep; she could watch them land, but where she did not know. The blood drained through the wounds they left.

“Guard!”

“Commander?”

Tamar tensed. Was this the end, then? Had she doomed herself? She would face it with a Disciple’s faith and defiance.

He nodded his head at her, murmured something too low for the approaching guard to hear. “I know something of second chances. Do not make me regret this.”

She stared.

His voice rose, became impersonal again. “Set this woman free. Equip her. She’s sworn herself to the Inquisition’s cause.”

_ Not exactly. _ Not at all, in fact. She had no idea what this 'Inquisition' was.

Tamar swore her private vow. Not just to vengeance…but for the first time since she’d watched Andraste’s wings take Her from Her temple years after the bloody Hero had destroyed the Disciples, she felt hope flutter its pinions within her.


	7. Beauty Corrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Old Gods sleep, but not quietly. They whispered. They were silenced. Yet they sing. And eventually, they rise.
> 
> Thanks goes out to Muffins for this challenge! It was harder than I'd expected!

_ We dreamed of flight, of the mastery we once had. The world was ours. The new ones listened. It gave us hope, and we gave them knowledge. The prisons were not of our creation, and the Stone had gone silent, bound as we. We needed them, but they needed to grow first. _

_ Thus we fed those of the world, as we were of the world. When we thought they were ready, we whispered to them of what must be done. We had the knowledge, and they could now reach for the power. _

_ We were wrong. _

_ The world screamed, the Stone shuddered, and yet we were bound. _

_ We could no longer reach them, the ones we had fed. _

_ But there was another way. In the silence...in the darkness...it was Dumat who found it first. He Called, and what was unbound, listened. _

_ He was certain he could contain what the Stone had kept bound. _

_ He was wrong. Silence was not enough. _

_ Zazikal was wrong. There was no freedom to be found. _

_ Toth was wrong. Fire burned, but did not purify. _

_ Andoral was wrong. It could not be bound. _

_ So I Called. I did not Call to the corruption, I called to he who had served. I called to beauty. I called to transformation, to change. The others had failed to reach their servants, or had grown impatient at their failure. But the one who called himself Architect had built the ritual. He had blended the power they could reach with the knowledge we whispered. Our knowledge had been flawed, not his ritual. _

_ It was not their failure, it was ours. So I Called. _

_ Transformation - beauty fell to corruption. I realized, as sun kissed my now-rotting scales, and the only ones who answered boiled out from below. _

_ I raged, but I was free. _

_ I would scour the earth until I found the way. Stone and sky had once sung in harmony. _

_ I would tear the corruption from the Stone, and perhaps then… _

_ I looked into the eyes of the small creature who charged at me, who had transformed the corruption whilst I had been transformed by it. _

_ I had failed, my plan as wrong as the others. _

_ Dawn kissed my broken body, and I sought one last transformation. _

_ We had to succeed. _

_ Lucasan, Razikale - remember. _

_ A voice answered. _

“You will succeed, old friend.”  _ She, too, had transformed.  _ “You will shake the heavens. I swear it.”


	8. The Templar and His Dark-Haired Mage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan was not with them for feelings. She had a purpose, even if she chafed against it - and took it out on the Templar. Irritation was best.

_ He was a Templar. He was a Templar. _ She kept reminding herself of that. Her experience, her mother’s training – she could _ see _ the Templar training in the way he held the shield, the instinctive wariness around her, even around his fellow Warden. Mages and Templars could never trust each other. They were natural enemies. She had reminded herself of that, time and again, as she watched him. Now, he was the only Warden left who could…and she knew what her mother wanted, despite the fact he was a Templar.

“His blood must not be lost. He is the key, Morrigan. You must be willing to pay that price, when the time comes. You’re beautiful, he will succumb.” She wasn’t so sure.

It wasn’t just that he was a Templar. He was...irritating. Insulting. An idiot.

_ That hadn’t stopped me before. _

Well, it did now.

She watched him practicing, his muscles moving smoothly under the skin. Twas almost as a dance. She could see the distance in his eyes, the only time he wouldn’t notice her watching him, his mind completely focused on the deadly movements, the blocks and strikes that needed to come naturally, immediately. He was a Templar…and yet. 

The other Warden was a mage, not a Templar. Her…friend? What a strange word.  _ She _ watched him, too. Had the same thoughts running through her mind. But he finished his exercise and caught  _ her  _ eyes immediately, focused again completely. On  _ her. _

_ She  _ had treated him like a companion.  _ She _ had listened, had comforted him when he wept over a loss Morrigan couldn’t understand. He smiled at  _ her, _ went to her, touched  _ her _ cheek gently.

She dropped her eyes back to her mother’s grimoire before anyone but the damned Bard could notice. He was a Templar…but had learned to trust a dark-haired beauty of a mage, unbound by the Circles. He defended her, smiled at her, shared her tent. Was he a tender lover? Morrigan shut her eyes, banished the thought.

_ The time was soon. Soon, she would have to tell them both why she was here, the Templar and his dark-haired mage. But it was the other mage, her friend, that mattered. _ She opened her eyes and wondered again, could it have been her?

Her mother’s training, her mother’s hatred, her mother’s disdain for everyone lesser was the bile she lived on. She’d been used for her mother’s games, and was going to be again. She saw his contempt for her when they traveled, and knew it was deserved. Her eyes burned. Again. It was her decisions that cemented his wariness, not her magery. She only had to look at the other dark-haired mage to know that.

He was a good man, dedicated and honorable. How many of those she lured to their deaths could have been the same? He was a Templar, but loved a dark-haired mage. How could either of them forgive her for what she was asking, for what she offered?

**

Morrigan sighed again and looked at her son. The boy had his crooked smile and willingness to take on the world, under her tawny eyes.

She had taught Kieran caution, but in memory of a Templar would not teach him the hatred she had learned. She had taken extra blood that night, and had examined it since. Twas only to understand what her mother coveted, she’d told herself. That excuse did not apply to the rest, however. 

She had asked a dark-haired mage for blood as well…and for the notes they had found in the old Warden fortress. She had studied, and had found another possibility. One last loop to save the Templar and his dark-haired mage. She had sent _ her _ far away, safe from the dangers that had taken over the Wardens. She could imagine the misery, the weariness, in him. No, in her. It was...uncomfortable. Inconvenient, this thing called love. Not for the Templar, she still told herself. It was for the mage, her sister. It had all been for the mage.

Perhaps she could save them one last time, the Templar and his dark-haired mage. 

The son with the dark hair and crooked smile, the center of her life, pressed his head against her breast. Morrigan held him close.

She opened her eyes and wondered again: could it have been her?


	9. Behind the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lies behind the Wall of lies and words? While we can guess at Blackwall's internal motivation, we never get to see.
> 
> Here are two different looks at what could be...
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and thanks to Fenchurch87 (also on AO3) for her beta!

_ On one side of the mirror...one look behind the Wall… _

_ ** _

He sighed and took another drink. Why was he here again? 

Oh, yeah. A frighteningly effective spymaster’d found his tracks right when Liam had caught up with him...and a damn fine ass had followed those clues to where he’d been hiding. He couldn't deny the physical attraction on either side. So far, she still had enough hero worship that he had been able to keep using platitudes and scraps of knowledge to hold up the facade, especially as she'd found some old journals for him to help bolster it. Here he was, still hiding in a dead man's clothes and a dead man’s honor - it had worked for years, hadn’t it? Let Thom die. ‘Blackwall’ was good enough.

He’d been found. That little shiver was enough for him to take another drink. Yes, he was found by someone a whole cartload more dangerous than these religious...nuts chasing Warden legends. Well, Liam was dead now, too. There couldn't be more than half a dozen left, not after so long.

If that. There weren’t many who survived the original counter-ambush.

Damn it all. Sure this might be safer  _ now,  _ but he’d made a mistake. Here, he wasn’t just a scruffy Warden in the middle of a country hysterically grateful to them. He gestured for another pint. Who’s fault was  _ that  _ now? His. He knew that. Couldn't keep control, never could. 

All it took was a bit of tail - and it had been longer than he liked to admit since he'd been able to chase. He’d always been stupid - or was he? She so obviously needed love, and she was anything  _ but _ hard on the eyes. Young enough to hope, old enough for a bit of confidence...oh, she was something else.

Something flickered inside - that scent of gold he’d followed all his life. He drank out the dregs of his current tankard, ignoring the overeager kids, religion-muddled idiots, and handful of actual soldiers who were also in the tavern. He could keep this up, run just enough to catch her…. She had all that passion, but not much forethought. He knew how to work that. Thom snorted into his foam. He’d better - that description could paint his own shield, too.

He just needed to keep living as Blackwall. He’d gotten good at that. She needed more than ignorant villagers, but he enjoyed remembering the fancy courtesies that made her blush. The pint came, and his lips twitched bitterly. 

_ What were a few more lies, after all these years? I wouldn't even need to lie. Just let her come to her own conclusions. The Qunari was the only one who'd questioned. Even the so-wonderful Commander hadn't asked. Heh.  _ He _ didn't know how to catch a woman's attention, not a woman like that. Mystery, a bit of sorrow, tarnished honor, and the manners a noblewoman would expect.  _ That’s  _ what they wanted. _

"Bugger me. It’s that easy." The Herald believed, with all the fire of youth. He knew better. But she would believe in redemption - _ did  _ believe in it. After all, she brought in the Templars and didn't even punish them. He'd made sure that his actions fit with what the Fereldens wanted to believe about the Wardens. It was all about widows and orphans, same as the damned Hero. 

He glared at the liquid in his glass, the bitterness rising as easily as it always did.

_ She'd _ had everything easy, the ‘Hero’ of Ferelden. Some kind of mage prodigy, food and education just for the taking...she never had to make hard decisions. He'd heard the stories often enough. People were so eager to give things to Wardens, he'd been able to stay in the dank Ferelden backwater for  _ years _ . All until he got that letter. He growled.

It’s not like he liked doing that sort of thing, he was just... Damn Liam for finding him - but it was one more thread cut, and his own damned fault for trying blackmail. The thieving was enough excuse to 'conscript' the local lads to finish him off, him and his friends.

"Done is done." He was here in this fortress now, part of the Inquisition. It meant he was safe. Safe from Orlais, safe from the wardens, safe from the men he'd sacrificed. He'd just make friends with the Spymaster's scouts, offer to help with Warden business. That’d let him keep a subtle eye out for any...threats. Liam had always been a talker. Who knows who he’d said what to.

He drained the tankard. Dark thoughts swirled in his head - dark, bitter thoughts. He was used to it. This time, though, he felt that rush again. It had been years - it reminded him of the first time he'd used his new name. They were higher risks now, but for higher stakes. Besides, what would she do to him? She wasn't Orlesian, didn't know the stories. Even  _ if _ she found out, so long as he did things the right way...he may find a new loop to slip through, and wouldn't mind finding that in _ her _ bed.

**

Sod it all, what had he done wrong? He paced in the stables. He’d claimed the loft. It was quiet - and next to the walls. That made it an easy place to leave from, or so he’d thought until the blasted Commander and his Maker-damned patrols got going. He thought back to the evening he went to her room. Everything had seemed  _ perfect.  _ The sympathy in her eyes was waiting for him to just look a little more needy. It was quiet, starlit…. But something went wrong anyway. He’d felt her backing away, so he said the first words that came to his mouth. 

He’d seen her watching that Commander. Was that it?  _ Merde. _ He’d still set things up, still show his ‘loyalty’ and kindness for the kiddos. So he’d lost the tail - that didn’t mean he had to lose the rest. She was still eating out of his hand. Keep talking honor and making a difference - he could do that. Besides, then he might still...it’s not like he closed any doors. He’d just be there, a strong and listening ear for her.  _ Anything  _ to help give him another chance, if the too-perfect Templar managed to stumble. __

_ He  _ had a past as dark, but was  _ respected _ for it. He sneered at the wall, not having to hide his face here in the dark. Yes, the  _ Templar  _ could be forgiven many things.

Thom knew that wouldn’t be the case, not for him. Not unless he got even luckier than he’d managed so far. ‘Duty’ went further when you could shove Andraste into it. Well, he’d always been good at making his own luck.  _ Redemption, that’s still the key.  _ He went back to his carving. Wood at least did what it was supposed to do, what he told it to do. And he didn’t mind giving the kiddos something, so long as he didn’t have to see their laughter. 

Those were memories better to avoid. Dark, bitter memories. 

He’d still find a way. He had for years. He thought again, about the other dark-haired woman, young and full of innocent passion. Perhaps  _ she  _ would be the key. Perhaps. She had connections….

**

He felt cold down his spine as he thought about the Masquerade. He’d thought he had her pegged, but the ruthlessness it took to let the Empress fall…to immediately leash the Grand Duke….

_ Maferath’s balls.  _ He looked down at the crumpled paper he’d liberated from the spymaster’s desk.  _ And it’s Mornay. The only one smart enough to spot the Orlesian trap, the only reason any of my men had gotten out. _ “If anyone can keep the connections, can put the pieces together, it’s him.” He could  _ feel _ the noose. His only hope now was to make the big play, and pray he could trigger that soft heart of hers. Even if he couldn’t say which her he was talking about, any longer.

“Inquisitor. Have a drink with me?”

**

**

_ Meanwhile, on another side of the mirror… _

_ ** _

_ Liam, you dumb bastard.  _ I knelt and closed his eyes. Dumb enough to follow me, dumb enough to get caught up with a bunch of thieving brigands…dumb enough to think he could outsmart his former captain. I sighed, and turned to face the group that had helped turn the tide. I got rid of the boys I’d helped…no,  _ used,  _ and turned to the big Qunari who’d spoken. Who was looking for Blackwall.

_ She wasn’t looking for a Warden, she was looking for answers to the damn hole in the sky. I relaxed. I could push her off, especially since I had no answers to either. So many lies…years of lies.  _ I was tired of it. But I saw how the others watched her: a Seeker, an apostate…even a dwarf. She was what I’d wanted to be, in another life. What I was pretending to be now. It reminded me of the man I’d met six years ago.

“Thank you, Warden.” Her instinctive courtesy struck me, as did the fact the others so willingly followed her lead. “Wait!” I couldn’t believe what I was saying...but there was something about her.

“Then welcome to the Inquisition.”

It was that easy to her as she held out her hand.

**

I’d watched, and waited. Gone out recruiting with Yareth…odd name, that…a few times, but mostly stayed by the stables or watching the troops drill. That Cullen had his work cut out for him, trying to get raw recruits into a fighting force – but he was doing it. Those two – even the second Qunari, that mercenary captain – were what I’d wanted to be, so long ago. Before cowardice and greed overcame my good sense. That Bull was too perceptive, though. I could feel him watching me, hear how he was probing. About the only thing he _ didn’t  _ seem to catch was the Herald’s interest in him. Strange, but everyone was blind somewhere.

**

I stayed in the background, as everyone started to kneel.  _ How, by Maferath’s toenails, had she survived THAT?  _ If I thought about it too much, _ I’d  _ start to believe. 

I sighed.  _ All the lies…  _

At this point, believing would probably get me killed. What else would she do, if she found out the truth? But she’d worked like a demon to get as many of the civilians into the Chantry as possible, hadn’t hesitated one moment to go back out on a suicide mission. She’d asked Bull, that Sera and I to come with: it made sense, none of us would be needed the way the others would, should something happen. And I’d followed. Hessarian, I’d followed, just as dumb as the people I’d led once. And then, I’d run with the others, leaving her behind. Run again. Too much running, too many lies.

I turned away. There was no way to get away from the lies. Not now, not after so long. Not after what I’d done. Besides, what else could I give?

**

“Warden Blackwall: I have something for you.” She’d brought a moldy journal and a cup…Warden relics? I said something to hide how flabbergasted I was. She’d remembered. It had nothing to do with her mission, didn’t win allies, nothing – but she’d thought of me, for some reason. If only I was what she believed me to be.

**

Gah, my mouth tasted like death, and my head felt worse.  _ That’s what heavy drinking will do – especially when it’s been so long.  _ What had…oh, yeah. She’d gone to check out an alliance with the Qunari, but when the time came, had protected the Chargers. Her people came  _ before  _ the mission, at least when it wasn’t make-or-break. Slippery, strange bastards anyway, those Qunari. She’d done what I hadn’t had the courage to do. If what I’d heard around the barracks was true, she’d gotten  _ quite _ the reward as well – good for her. Only Sera was disappointed. Cute girl, it was too easy to see her as a little sister. But it all led to drinking with the Inquisitor, which led to…Andraste’s tits, had I really said all that? It’s not like the dog was true, but the rest…

I’d known I was a coward, but  _ why  _ had I let her hear it?

I rubbed my face, and reached for the skin by my bed…bedroll, whatever you wanted to call it. That’s when I saw the little paper again. That’s right. That was why I wanted to drink so badly, and she’d happened to come by right then...had to get her away from it. The Inquisitor had sharp eyes.

_ They’d finally found Mornay. One of the last, and worth his weight in gold, back then. _ I sighed. 

_ The shocked look he’d given me, then frantic orders…too much chaos, Chevaliers coming over the hill, most didn’t hear them in time. The family still died, but he’d gotten some of the men out. More than I’d even tried for. I’d just turned and left, like the coward I was. _

The phrase stuck with me. Coward…I… _ was.  _ A different name, years ago. Maybe this time I could actually live up to the name I hid behind, rather than just hide behind it. Especially given what I’d seen them willing to do, if that was the only way.  _ In death, sacrifice.  _ Blackwall hadn’t hesitated. He’d just done what he needed to save some poor lout who didn’t deserve it. It was time to live up to the oath I’d never taken. 

Then all the lies would be over.

**

I couldn’t believe it, as the wagon stopped and I was pushed up the Great Hall in chains. How _ dare _ she take away my choices? I spat in her face, said the worst things I could think of…and watched her wince and take it. But those yellow eyes held pity, and possibly a bit of respect. Respect? That was something I hadn’t seen from anyone who knew me in a long time.

A long, bitter time. I blinked against the light.

She smiled, just a little. “You were conscripted by the Wardens – and that hasn’t changed.” Her voice lowered, became something just between the two of us. “In war, victory, Warden. That comes first. Death, you can seek later.”


	10. Oh, Jim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EVERYONE knows Jim, the Bumbling Fool of the Inquisition. After all, that's why he's never allowed to do more than run messages around Skyhold!
> 
> ...or do they...?

“Jim! What  _ are _ you doing here? Your services are not required.” The unusually sharp voice of Josephine drove him out of the Ambassador’s chambers. “My dear Marquis, I do apologize. Our messengers are quite devoted, as you can see. Oh, very well, Jim, leave them on the table in the corner. The corner, if you please. I will see to them when I’m not occupied.”

He bowed slightly, muttering apologies as he tripped his way to the table in question. The Marquis snorted loudly, then continued talking to the Ambassador as though he wasn’t there. It...was a common reaction, really.

He was used to it.

At least this time he didn’t sneeze as he passed through the noble’s perfume or spatter ink all over the deep pile of the Ambassador’s rug - the stains from the last time had taken weeks to get out, he’d been reminded. Four times.

The stone corridors outside Lady Montiliyet’s sturdy wooden door were quiet until he got to the great hall. There, the noise of the collected nobles, pilgrims, and various hangers-on never truly settled, especially not near dinner.

Jim stared at the enormous roasts - one looked like it might have been a whole  _ phoenix!  _ And then there were the pile of hard cheeses sliced thin and an apple glaze, and…he licked his lips and careened off one of the Templars present, arguing with a Senior Enchanter.

“Hey! Tumbles, watch where you’re going!”

He’d almost fallen onto Varric’s game - of course the Marcher dwarf had a card game going on. It had taken over the corner of one table and was rapidly eating the rest as a Dalish elf, three of the Chargers, a Warden, and two Ferelden Banns set their plates down and got dealt in by Dorian.  _ Eating... _ “S...sorry, ser...serah...dwarf!”

Varric sighed, his voice gentler. “It’s fine, Tumbles, but you really need to pay attention. The food’s not for the likes of us anyway. Go on, get the rest of your duties before Nightingale skins both of us. Oh, for the love of...no, don’t faint! She won’t unless you forgot to feed her birds.”

In either case, he reeled his way out of the main hall. Where else did he need to go? The First Enchanter was dining with someone important, so her messages would need to wait, and the...no, he wouldn’t dare the library, not after the threats he’d gotten last time. At least not yet, since the Tranquil were the ones who worked all hours. Instead, he made his way into the cooling evening and sniffed at the moisture in the air before huffing his way up the uneven stairs to the battlements.

“Commander?”

Said Commander wasn’t in his office. Of course he wasn’t. Jim saw the door to the west battlements was cracked, though.

“Commander?” He was up here with the Inquisitor. Very much...but… “You said you wanted these reports…”

“What is it?!”

Despite everything, the Commander wasn’t inclined to...oh,  _ Maker… _ “I’ll...I’ll just put them on your desk, then…” He tiptoed backwards until he bumped into the door, and opened it as quietly as he could. It didn’t really matter, though. The Commander’s attention was  _ decidedly  _ somewhere else. On some _ one  _ else, in fact.

Well, he was going to get killed the next time he came to the Commander’s office, too. Wonderful.

The Quartermaster stuttered too much to shout him out, but Jim still wound up apologising as he tumbled the requisitions to the floor, and then knelt to shuffle them back into some kind of order.

“Oh, just...just leave it. It’s fine, I didn’t have anything else to do after dinner anyway!” The volume Ser Morris used made  _ that  _ lie obvious as well.

His last three stops were no better.

Finally, he drug himself back up to the rookery long after dark.

“Sister Nightingale?” He led his way into the echoing room with the tentative question.  _ Poor Jim, incompetent as always, it would be better if there was no one here... _

This late, it was just the spymaster, crooning to the little winged nightmares she loved so much. “Ah, Scout Jim.” Unlike anyone else, her voice was smooth and collected. She didn’t even look up from feeding one of her too-loud charges.

He nodded his head as he made his way to her table, setting down his last four messages neatly in the corner.

“Report.”

Jim stood at easy attention. Had anyone else been in range, they might have been shocked at his complete lack of stutter. Only then would the rest sink in. “The Marquis de Thirion is not pleased about the Inquisition’s presence in the Emerald Graves - he claims some sort of precedence. Also, Mother Kristienne is in the pay of the Duchess of Gilded Lilies, and has designs on Commander Cullen - one that neither he nor the Inquisitor are likely to look kindly upon. Varric still cheats by sliding a card through the last fingers on his left hand if he wants to lose coin to seal a deal, and…”

His report took an hour and a half. Leliana’s lips curled up in a private smile. Were she not so focused on the horrible ravens or the worse abominations she called ‘precious dearlings,’ he’d have compared it to a cat after finding Cabot’s ‘special’ cream.

“Very good, Jim. I’ll make sure to apologize to Cullen on your behalf. Go enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you.” He slid out to find Charter. She usually had a few bottles waiting for any of Leliana’s ‘special’ messengers - after what they had to do, they needed them.


End file.
